Not Alone
by mimithereader
Summary: Being 17 is hard. Being 17 and dealing with supernatural bullshit is much harder. Being 17, dealing with supernatural bullshit, and not having control over your own bladder and bowels is absolute hell. (Or: Stiles becomes permanently incontinent after season 3b as a result of everything that happened since the ice bath sacrifice and being possessed by a nogitsune.)


The gun is pointed at his head and Stiles wishes he could _do_ something. But what's to be done? He isn't himself. He wishes he could choose between fight and flight. Hell, at this point he would take faint as a somewhat less desired third option. He just wants to do _something._

Chris's hands are steady, completely unwavering as he holds the gun pointed directly at Stiles's forehead. Stiles can't tell what is about to happen. His dad is here and Stiles desperately wishes he wasn't. He shouldn't be involved, he should never have been involved.

"_You're not gonna shoot my son_."

His dad's voice is filled with so much pain. He shouldn't be here.

"_You said it yourself, Sheriff. That's not your son._"

Chris sounds assured.

_He could do this_, Stiles thinks, _he could really kill me._

Stiles wants to scream, tell them that yes, yes he's here! He's still here!

"_Dad, he's gonna shoot me. He's gonna kill me, dad."_

Stiles wishes he could shut up. Chris is right, this isn't him.

Stiles shouldn't have wished that he could scream, he realizes, as he shouts at Argent to "_Pull the trigger! Shoot me!"_

A gunshot rings loudly in his ears and Stiles shoots up in his bed, gasping for breath as his fingers grasp for purchase on his sheets.

It was a dream.

Well, kind of.

It's another minute of heavy breathing before the too-warm sensation growing underneath him clues him into the fact that something is amiss. It's with a sleep-addled brain that he slowly comes to the conclusion that he has indeed wet the bed. His reaction, unfortunately, is not immediate and he sits unmoving on his piss-soaked bedding for a solid thirty seconds. It's not his fault he doesn't move faster, that he doesn't jump up and off of the bed like any sane person. He hasn't had to deal with this for nearly a decade; he can be excused for lagging reflexes.

Thankfully everything does eventually click into place and the logical processing of his mind that he holds so much pride in finally kicks in and takes over, allowing him to methodically go through the motions of how to remedy this situation

_Strip the bed – check. _

_ Throw the sheets into the wash – check. _

_ Shower off, change into clean pajamas – check and check. _

_ Put new sheets on the bed – check. _

_ Reflect on the fact that he actually pissed himself at seventeen years old – well, that could wait till the morning. _

It's only two nights later when it happens again. He's pretty surprised, to say the least. Perhaps he shouldn't be, though, he had been having a nightmare after all. This time it was about the bomb he – no, the nogitsune– planted in the sheriff's station. In his dream, though, his dad was the one with the fatal wound, bleeding out on the debris covered floor as Scott tried in vain to save him. It was his own dad's pain that later he – _no, the nogitsune_ – relished in, sucked power from, got off on.

So all in all, wetting the bed is perhaps not actually the biggest surprise. It used to happen after his mom died, got so bad, in fact, that his dad had to put one of those annoying plastic covers on his mattress that crinkled and squeaked every time he moved a fraction of an inch. Of course, he is quite a bit older now and peeing the bed isn't quite as understandable as when he was, say, eight years old. But whatever, it's totally not a big deal. Totally.

Anyway, it's like his dad always says: once is an accident, twice is a coincidence.

He's had a rough few nights, a couple of bad dreams, it was totally a coincidence.

Totally.

Even Stiles has to admit that it might be a problem when he has an accident for the third time in a week and a half. It's after yet another horrific voyage into the land of the dreaming, this time (thankfully) not based on an event that's actually transpired. This time, his dream-self had been rudely awakened by a knock at the door and a uniformed officer telling him his dad had been in a fatal car accident.

He cleans himself up and heads downstairs. His dad is sitting in his recliner, eyes scanning paperwork for something or other, a glass of jack half-full on the end table. The little hand of the clock on the wall behind his dad points at the two.

"Everything okay, kiddo?"

Stiles doesn't answer. He crosses the room and clambers onto the chair beside his dad. It's a tight fit, Stiles has to draw his knees up as he presses against his father's chest and closes his eyes. The sheriff, bless him, doesn't do anything more than lift his arm to curl it over his son's back, holding him close.

When the glass is empty and his dad's soft snores fill the room, Stiles carefully extricates himself and goes to quietly start a load of laundry.

Three times is a pattern. Maybe those plastic mattress covers are going to have to make an unfortunate comeback.

The next time it happens Stiles is so embarrassed he nearly bursts into tears.

He'd been watching television with his dad, enjoying their time together, when suddenly his thigh was too warm and a dark, wet patch appeared on his tan pants. It was such a shock that this could be happening during the day, with no nightmare catalyst, that Stiles could do nothing but sit there and stare. Of course when the initial stunned surprise faded, Stiles jumped up, ignoring his dad's questions, and bolted for the bathroom. As soon as he'd slammed the door shut, he pressed his back against it and allowed himself to slide down to the tile floor. When he heard his father's footsteps a few moments later, he reached up and locked the door, not wanting to face his dad when he was this embarrassed.

"Stiles." A knock at the door. Stiles just cradles his head in his hands. "Stiles, are you okay?" The doorknob twists half way but doesn't open. Thank god for locks. "Stiles, open the door." His dad sighs. Stiles hates that sound. "You know it isn't a big deal, right?" So he noticed. Of course he did. Just great. Another sigh. "I'll leave some clothes for you outside the door, alright?"

It doesn't matter, Stiles thinks, because he is never opening that door.

Another night, another nightmare, another load of soiled laundry. It's the fourth time it's happened in as many days. Thankfully since that horrendous incident on the couch, his bladder has stuck to not functioning at night only. Which Stiles prefers greatly, obviously. Bedwetting may be mortifying, but it is much better to be mortified in private. In the dark.

He's going to have to start stockpiling some of his lunch money to buy laundry detergent, his dad is going to notice eventually.

The second time one of these 'incidents' crosses over into the daytime, Stiles is already in the shower. Thank God for small mercies, right?

It's not like it really matters, anyway. Literally everyone pisses in the shower. It's convenient. It's normal.

Shitting, on the other hand, not so much.

Stiles has to bleach the tub.

He feels it the second it happens. He feels his muscles relax and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He's at the sheriff department talking to Deputy Parrish; he's brought lunch for him and his father when it happens. He doesn't give an excuse as he drops the bag on Parrish's desk and moves as quickly as he can to the parking lot.

"Thanks for standing me up earlier, kid," his dad teases when he gets home from work. "Something happen?"

_Yeah,_ Stiles thinks, _something definitely happened._ But since he can't really (or won't really) tell his dad that he shit himself – the second time, by the way – he just smiles and mutters something about evil teachers and piles of homework.

"There's no rest for the wicked, daddy."

He isn't fast enough to pull over when he feels the warm sensation – a sensation that's becoming all too familiar - on his inner thigh.

Stiles pulls into a gas station, makes do with the cleaning products there, and actually manages to do a pretty stellar job of decontaminating the seat of his car.

Scott hops in the jeep not ten minutes later and his face crinkles up in a look that is as close to disgust as actual puppy Scott McCall can make.

"Dude, it smells like piss in here."

Fuck werewolf senses. Seriously.

Checkout register lane number 9. Stiles will never forget checkout register lane number 9. It will forever be remembered as the place Stiles Stilinski lost all pretense of any shred of dignity he may have been holding on to. Half of his items are already on the conveyor belt when he has to leave. He can't wait. He runs out, jumps in his car, and spends twenty minutes sitting on the edge of his bathtub trying to pull himself back from the verge of a panic attack.

"Incontinence. There is urinary incontinence and fecal incontinence and from what you've told me, you have both. There's no need to worry…"

Stiles stops listening. The doctor's words all mash together in a confusion of syllables that Stiles cannot comprehend.

_Incontinence. _

No, this can't be right. That's for old people. That's for unhealthy people. That's for _other_ people.

He's not sure how he ended up parked in his driveway but it's another forty minutes before he actually makes it inside.

It continues: the nightmares, the bedwetting, the accidents. It all continues. But it isn't a problem. He sleeps with a wash cloth clenched between his teeth to muffle his screaming. He doesn't eat lunch on Tuesdays to pay for detergent. Changing his clothes becomes routine.

There isn't a problem.

He's nearly full convinced himself of this, he's pretty sure.

"Oh, hey, I forgot to ask, but Miss Jenkins down the street said she saw you fleeing the grocery store like a bat out of hell the other day. Everything okay, kid?"

It's an innocent enough question, but Stiles can't help but feel like his dad _knows._

But there's no way he could possibly know. There's nothing _to_ possibly know. There's no problem, right?

Right.

He's sitting in economics when he suddenly feels damp. He freezes, feels himself become increasingly more wet, but he can't _stop_. The fight or flight instinct kicks in, Scott turns to stare at him with shock written all over his face, and Stiles flees the room. He hears someone shout, _"Dude, Stilinski just pissed his pants!"_ as he runs for the bathroom.

He doesn't know that Scott tries to follow him, only to be told none too kindly to sit his ass back down.

He makes it to the bathroom and falls to the floor near the sinks, just like he had all those months ago when he couldn't read the textbook in Mr. Yukimura's class.

Everyone saw.

_ Everyone saw_.

He is wearing tan pants and _everyone saw_.

He shouldn't have worn these pants. Why the hell did he wear these pants? You can see _everything_ in these pants!

Why didn't he think of any of this? Why wasn't he worried?

Oh yeah, because to be worried there would have to be a _problem._

And there wasn't a problem. He didn't _have_ a problem, right?

Except, yeah, he knows that's total bullshit because he's sitting on this disgusting bathroom floor, gasping for breath with tears streaming down his face and these pants really _aren't_ hiding anything and –

He needs his dad.

He yanks his phone out of his pocket and chooses the first number in his speed dial.

_"Shouldn't you be in class, kid?"_

"_Da-daddy."_

_ "What's wrong? What happened? Are you hurt?"_

_ "N-no."_

_ "No you're not hurt?"_

_ "No."_

_ "Stiles, where are you? What happened?"_

_ "S-school. In the b-bathroom. It – I -"_

_ "You did what?... Sweetheart, I can't understand you with the crying…Are you still listening?...Talk to me, kid"_

_ "I c-c-can't. I - "_

_ "You need to calm down, son. You're going to have a panic attack if you don't calm down. Just listen to my breathing for a minute, okay? Don't try to talk… Good, good, you're doing good, Stiles… That's it. Just keep at it. In through your nose, out through your mouth...You said you're in the bathroom?"_

_ "Y-yeah."_

_ "I'll come pick you up. I'll be there in five minutes."_

_ "D-dad?"_

_ "Yeah?"_

_ "Can you bring me some c-clothes?"_

_ "I'll be there in fifteen minutes."_

True to his word the sheriff was at the high school fifteen minutes later, extra pair of boxers and pants tucked discreetly in a plastic bag.

He helps Stiles up off the floor, wipes the tears from his son's cheeks with calloused thumbs. He waits for Stiles to finish changing in the bathroom stall, suggests lunch when the uncomfortable silence stretches.

They wait for their lunch in silence at a little booth tucked in the back of the little diner that they haven't been to in years. Stiles is still avoiding eye contact.

"Maybe you should go to the doctor." Stiles stills in his actions, his hands halting their motions of stacking the packs of saltine crackers. He almost feels bad that he's causing his son's shoulders to go taut with tension. Almost. "This isn't the first time you've had an incident."

"It's fine, dad."

He doesn't push it, not here, not now.

They eat their lunch in silence.

Later that afternoon Stiles sits on the edge of his dad's bed and waits for him to get out of the bathroom.

"Jesus, kid, are you trying to give me a heart attack?" his dad asks, clearly startled.

"Will you help me study?"

John quirks his eyebrow, but refrains from commenting on the fact that Stiles _never_ asks for help with studying.

"Sure, what are we studying for?"

"I have a history test Friday," Stiles tells him, holding out a stack of notecards with various definitions and facts written on them.

"What World War II action caused Great Britain and France to declare war on Germany?"

"German invasion of Poland."

"Year?"

"1939."

"Right. Kid, we've been through all of these four times now. You've got this down, Stiles, you're going to do fine."

There's silence for a minute between the two. Stiles seems hesitant to call it quits, but John is absolutely going to go out of his mind if he has to read the same 90 index cards for a fifth time.

"Do you want to play a board game?" Stiles asks out of nowhere.

They play monopoly in mostly silence for the better part of an hour. John watches Stiles fiddle with the pieces, watches the way the little orange houses dig into the flesh of his son's fingertips.

"I went to the doctor," Stiles says, eyes not leaving the stacks of money that he has been straightening for the past ten minutes.

"What are you talking about?"

"I – he said I - "

"Stiles, talk to me."

"He said it's incontinence," Stiles mumbles.

"Why didn't you tell me, kid?" Stiles shrugs. "Well, what else did the doctor say?" Another shrug. "Stiles, I can't help if I don't know what's going on with you," he says with a measured calmness. It won't pay to get frustrated right now.

"I know," Stiles whispers, still not looking at his father.

"I don't ever want you to be too ashamed to talk to me, Stiles. There's nothing to be ashamed of here, okay?" He doesn't get a response. He sits up onto his knees and leans across the coffee table to press a kiss to Stiles's forehead. "Everything is going to be fine, son."

This time Stiles nods.

"Do you still want to play?" Stiles asks, gesturing to the board.

"You missed your last three turns."

"…oh."

"Come on, let's go to the store. There's no food in this house."

Unfortunately for Stiles, there was an ulterior motive to this little trip to the store and after getting food for dinner, the two of them are now in the aisle for "hygiene products."

_Depend Adjustable Underwear. Assurance Belted Garments. Protective briefs. _There are so many styles, so many brands, and John has to admit he is at a bit of a loss here.

"Which ones do you think will be the most comfortable?" he asks, looking back to where Stiles is leaning his elbows on the handle of the cart. Stiles just shrugs and looks down. "Stiles, you gotta help out here, kid." Again, no response. "Look, I wasn't at the doctor's with you, so I really need you to communicate with me." He's met with silence. He lets out a sigh, reigns in his own exasperation. The kid is having a hard time, he tells himself. "Stiles?" Nothing. Not a surprise. "Ooookay, then."

He grabs the package that says _Dry 24/7_ in medium and hopes for the best.

John isn't really surprised when they get back home and Stiles heads straight upstairs, leaving him to bring in all of the groceries by himself.

He knocks on Stiles's door forty minutes later to tell him dinner is ready. He tosses the diapers on to his son's bed without a word. He does, however, shoot Stiles a pointed look and the _you are going to wear these_ is heavily implied.

It isn't until he's getting ready for bed that night that the full weight of everything really presses on Stiles. Normally he would brush his teeth, change into his pajamas, and get in bed, but now he has these – _things_ – that he's supposed to wear and the situation feels so heavy and suddenly Stiles doesn't know if he can do this, if he can handle all this, if he's going to –

_Breathe_. He needs to just _breathe._

His dad said everything would be fine, right? His dad knows these things. His dad wouldn't lie to him, so everything has to be fine.

Then again, his dad's never really had to deal with this before and maybe he is wrong because how can things be _fine_ when Stiles doesn't know if he's supposed to wear underwear over these stupid _things_?

"Stiles, time for school!"

Maybe if Stiles ignores him, he'll just go to work. As soon as the thought enters his head there's a knock on his bedroom door. No such luck, then.

"You're gonna be late," his dad says when he opens the door and sees Stiles still lying in his bed.

"No, 'm not," Stiles mumbles, shoving his face into his pillow.

"It's 7:45, you're - "

"Not gonna be late," Stiles interrupts. "You can't be late if you don't plan on going."

"You're going to school."

"No, 'm not." When there's no response, Stiles peeks out from under his arm to see his dad leaning against the door frame and staring at him with a hard look that practically screamed _you're going to damn well do whatever the hell I tell you_. Stiles sighs and lets go of his stupid pride. What's one more humiliation after all? "Everyone _saw_, Dad."

His dad abandons his post in the doorway and sits at the end of Stiles's bed.

"I get that you're embarrassed, kid - " Stiles just snorts because _embarrassed _didn't even begin to cover the sheer mortification that comes along with peeing his pants in class. "But what are you gonna do? Hide away in your room forever?"

"Is that an option?" Stiles asks jokingly, but it nearly breaks his dad's heart.

His dad reaches out and puts a hand on Stiles's blanket-covered knee, rubbing it gently. "I'll give you today. But you're going tomorrow, alright?"

It isn't really a question.

"Can I go to work with you?" Stiles blurts out when his dad's walking out of his room because, despite his desire to never go to school again, Stiles doesn't actually want to spend the day at home.

"They're gonna ask why you're not in school," his dad tells him.

"Oh." Stiles really should have thought of that.

"I can stay home."

"No, you don't have to. Really, I'm fine."

"I could use a break. They don't need me today," his dad says with a shrug and while it is undeniably true that his father needs a break from everything, Stiles knows it's total bullshit that he isn't needed today. He's always needed. Stiles says nothing, though. He could be selfish this once, give in to something he wants. And right now he wants his dad to play hooky with him and make his problems seem smaller.

The next day, Stiles decides the answer to the underwear question is a no. Why should he bother wearing boxers over these _things_ when he doesn't really have to? It's funny looking and in all honesty kind of uncomfortable. Not that wearing these _things_ is in anyway even remotely comfortable in itself. But really, why add to the laundry?

He puts on his darkest pair of jeans and calls it good.

The silent prayers he made on the drive to school apparently went unheard, considering the first thing someone says to him is _Hey, piss pants! _

He should have anticipated this, really. It's high school and high schoolers are nothing if not immature.

He makes it to second period without having to deal with another comment, only hushed conversations and obvious stares. High schoolers are also nothing if not unsubtle. This time it's some douche from cross country that asks Stiles if he remembered to use the potty. Scott nearly punches him in the face.

Thankfully, the rest of the day is relatively uneventful. He starts to notice a trickling down the inside of his thigh after lunch ends. It's not a lot, it's definitely not anything anyone else would be able to see, but the moisture is starting to make his jeans chafe.

There's no way he'll make it through practice like this, so he heads home when the last bell rings.

"I think these might be the wrong size," Stiles tells his dad awkwardly when he gets home.

"Are they too big?" his dad asks casually, like they're discussing a baseball game or the weather, not even looking up from the crossword he's working on and wow Stiles is thankful for that.

"Yeah, I think so," Stiles says, taking the seat next to his dad at the kitchen table.

"I'll pick up a smaller size after my shift tonight."

"Thanks. Seven down is 'pedantic.'"

Scott shows up after lacrosse practice to find out why Stiles wasn't there. Stiles doesn't want to lie to him, isn't sure that he actually could anyway, so he lays out what's going on while his dad prepares dinner in the kitchen and pretends not to be eavesdropping.

"Well, you don't have to use the school's gross bathroom anymore," Scott says and Stiles knows he meant it in jest, but he can't quite help the way his face falls.

"We're going to have dinner soon, Scott," Stiles's dad says.

Scott takes the hint and rushes out an uncomfortable goodbye as he leaves. When Scott's out the door, John puts a hand on Stiles's shoulder, but Stiles shrugs off his hand and any attempt at conversation and goes up to his room.

Before he leaves for his shift, John stops in Stiles's room to talk to him.

"You know he didn't say that to hurt you, right, kiddo?"

"Yeah," Stiles says with a sigh. He shuts his book and leans back against his headboard. "I know."

John takes the books and folders and papers that Stiles has spread over his mattress and sets them on the floor. He makes an aborted move to pull the comforter up over Stiles when Stiles slides further down into the bed, but he stops himself. He has to stop himself because that would cross the line from saying goodnight to actively _tucking Stiles in_ and he can't help but feel that that's a line he really shouldn't cross. Not when Stiles clearly already feels incompetent, he doesn't need to be babied. He doesn't _want_ to be babied. So even though it's nearly impossible to see his kid looking so vulnerable and not just swoop Stiles up into his arms and cradle him and promise that daddy will make all of his problems go away, he shoves his hands into his pockets and tells Stiles he'll be home in the morning.

It's a slow night at the station and he spends the majority of his night on his computer, researching different incontinence products. He finds something called a Cunningham Incontinence Clamp that's supposed to help by applying pressure to the urethra. It might be a good idea, at least for school, but it's something Stiles will have to order himself (using his dad's credit card) because John isn't going to ask his baby boy the measurement of the shaft of his penis.

"Don't pass it to Stilinski, he isn't even potty trained yet," some asshole – Stiles thinks his name is Jeremy - yells at lacrosse practice and Stiles freezes, face burning.

"Yeah, this is a big boy's game!"

"Oh, because you're so big and bad for picking on someone with incontinence!" Scott retorts and _everyone_ freezes.

No one had known that.

Stiles runs off the field, ignoring Scott yelling after him.

_Text Message From: Scott McCall_

_ I'm so sorry I told team whats wrong on accident. Stiles bailed. I'm sorry_

John takes only five minutes to rush home.

Stiles is sitting on the couch, elbows on his knees and face hidden behind his hands when his dad gets home. John wants to reach out, wants to pull him close and shield him from the world, but he doesn't know if he can. He doesn't know if Stiles will let him. He settles for sitting beside Stiles on the couch without a word, giving Stiles the power to control this conversation.

Stiles doesn't say a word but he moves his hands from his face and looks at his dad with big, tear-filled eyes. John doesn't have to struggle with the urge to reach out for long before Stiles grabs his dad's arm from where it rests halfway between them and tucks himself under it, moving to lay his head on his dad's thigh. Thank god. _This _John knows how to do. He rubs his son's back and runs his fingers through his son's tangled, dark hair as Stiles's tears soak into his pants.

"I was wondering when you were going to show up," Melissa says with a small smile.

"I'm assuming Scott told you," John responds with a slight smile of his own.

"He did. He's worried. How is Stiles?"

"He's been better," John tells her, leaning against the hospital counter.

"I'm sure it's hard on him. Stiles is so independent, he always has been, something like this must just be -" she cuts herself off with a shake of her head. "Well, anyway." She hands him a couple pamphlets. "Did you set up another doctor appointment?"

"He won't go," he tells her with an exasperated sigh.

"Well, I'll give you the name of a specialist a town over, if he comes around. Until then, I can give you a list of foods that he should try and avoid…"

Lydia is waiting for him at his locker before school the next day. He knows she knows. _Everyone_ probably knows, it's _high school_. She wordlessly hands him a binder and he opens it with a little hesitation. It's filled with tips, advice, and studies on incontinence. There's a table of index. It's _color coded. _

He looks up at her in shock and stutters out a quick thanks. She gives him a smile.

He should be mortified, he thinks, that the girl he spent the better part of a decade crushing on just gave him a binder full of information on his lack of bowel and bladder control, but really he's just amazed she put this all together in less than 16 hours.

"What are you making?"

"Turkey, mashed potatoes, and corn," John says as he moves around the kitchen finishing preparing their dinner. "Can you set the table?" Stiles grabs the silverware out of the drawer. "I know you don't like corn, but Melissa said the magnesium in it is important for muscle and nerve function, so you're eating it."

"Ugh, then you're eating a garden burger for lunch tomorrow."

The next time Stiles sees Jeremy since he was a total dick at lacrosse practice is in the hallway after third period and Scott's shoving him roughly into a locker before the kid can even open his mouth.

Stiles just smiles.

"We should try this," John says, motioning to the binder spread out on the kitchen table that Lydia had given to Stiles.

He's been pouring over the information whenever he gets a chance. It seems to Stiles his dad now spends every second of his free time trying to teach himself about incontinence. He appreciates the gesture, really, but the last traumatizing conversation after his dad went a google adventure ended with him telling Stiles, in too much detail, how freaking compression rings work to cut off the flow of urine. He knows his dad is trying to help, but dear lord, at what cost?

"What is it?" Stiles asks hesitantly, looking up from the homework he's been doing on the other side of the table, hoping to god _it_ doesn't have anything to do with measuring the width of his shaft.

"Bladder training."

"…What?"

"You set specific times to go to the bathroom, starting with every twenty minutes or so. Eventually you can work up to every few hours. We can work it around the times you can leave in class, your teachers have already been notified to let you out."

"Well, I can go whenever in first hour and second hour is econ. Coach always takes at least fifteen minutes to actually start the class…"

Scott is downstairs in the kitchen getting snacks when he stays over that weekend. He notices the schedule for planned bathroom breaks hanging on the fridge.

"What are you doing?" Stiles asks from the bottom of the stairs when he sees Scott taking a picture of his schedule.

"So I can help remind you," he answers easily.

His dad checks on them at some point that night and brings Stiles a glass of water.

"The Dr. Oz special I saw said it's really important that you stay hydrated."

Kira has taken to walking Stiles to all of his classes, their arms linked together.

When he expresses concern and questions her about being late, she just smiles and says, "I'm really fast."

He doesn't question her after that.

Stiles thinks he nearly has a heart attack when he looks up from his desk and Derek freaking Hale is standing two feet away.

"Jesus, Derek! Could you knock, please?" Stiles yells, grasping at his pounding chest and trying to calm his breathing.

"I came in through the window," Derek deadpans.

"Well, use the door next time!" Derek merely grunts in response. "Did you need something?" All he gets in response is a muttered 'No' with no further explanation. Well, if Derek wasn't going to bother explaining himself, Stiles wasn't going to bother trying to figure it out. He had other problems, math related problems, to focus on.

Twenty or so minute pass and other then the creepy sensation that he's being watched, Stiles has mostly forgotten Derek's even there, so it really isn't his fault that he nearly falls out of his chair when Derek decided to suddenly speak up. "Should you really be drinking coffee?"

"Wow, Scott really does have a big mouth, doesn't he?" Stiles asks, staring at his textbook and determinedly avoiding Derek's gaze. He's going to kill Scott.

"He didn't want to tell me. I made him," Derek says casually and now Stiles has to look at him.

"Why would you do that?" Derek just shrugs. "Why are you here, Derek?"

"To check on you," Derek responds like it's the most obvious thing in the universe and Stiles is the dumbest person to ever exist for expecting anything other than genuine concern from the notoriously grumpy werewolf.

"Well, I'm fine," Stiles mutters.

"You're not."

"Yeah? And why do you even care, huh?" Stiles feels like he isn't being fair here, like he should really be praising Derek for acting with a shred of compassion rather than condemning him for it, but he's just so goddamn tired of everything. He's been on the verge of snapping since this new shitstorm (pun so not intended) began and Derek's just unlucky enough to wander unwittingly into the crosshairs.

"You reek of depression."

Of all the answers in all the world, Stiles thinks, he hadn't been anticipating that one.

"I'm not depressed," he mumbles and even he can't pretend that response was anything other

than completely flimsy.

But Derek doesn't call him on it, God bless him.

"Okay," is all Derek says before moving to sit on the edge of Stiles's bed.

"Look, I – I appreciate you coming over, but I'm fine. I mean, I'm not fine, you can smell that, obviously, but I'm -"

"Stiles," Derek interrupts what is sure to be a humiliating rant. "You know this isn't really the end of the world, right?"

"It sure feels like it sometimes," Stiles whispers and it's the first time he's admitted to anyone that sometimes, yeah, things seem so bad that Stiles isn't sure his world isn't ending.

He isn't sure he doesn't want it to.

"I've never played," Derek tells him, indicating the xbox on Stiles's floor.

Lydia saves him a seat beside her at lunch like she does every day and Stiles takes a moment to reflect on just how far the both of them have come. So, his ten year plan to win her heart has been officially derailed, but a year ago she never would have willingly sat next to him. Sure, they have had to go through a lot of bullshit to reach this point, but if nothing else Stiles can look back at this and honestly say he found a great friend in Lydia. And that, well, that'd got to be worth something.

Scott finds them and sits down across the table with a smile. "Hey, you going to practice today, dude?"

"I don't think it's a good idea, Scott," Stiles says adamantly. He hasn't been to practice since Scott blurted everything out on the field and Stiles would be damned if that was about to change today.

"Come on, man. Coach isn't gonna let you play if you never go to practice," Scott tells him, breaking out the puppy eyes.

"Scott," Stiles says warningly. He might not be head over heels for Lydia anymore, but he still didn't want to have this conversation in front of her. Lydia stands suddenly, tells them she'll be back in a minute. Of course she picked up on his discomfort. Of course she did, she's Lydia freaking Martin.

"Stiles, I'm sorry for what -"

"Don't."

"What?"

"Don't apologize, Scott, you've already done that, like, a thousand time now. Okay? It's annoying," Stiles tells him while feigning irritation.

"So you'll come to practice?" Scott asks with a soft smile.

"I don't think I should. I don't have a, um, anyway, I forgot," Stiles says sheepishly, carefully avoiding the word _diaper_. God his life is just one embarrassment after another.

"It's fine, I have one in my bag."

"…What?"

"Just in case," Scott tells him with a nonchalant shrug.

Stiles is practically vibrating with nervous energy as he changes his shirt in the locker room before practice. This was an awful idea. Why did he let Scott talk him into this? Why did he let Scott talk him into _anything_?

"Relax," a voice says from behind Stiles and he's so startled that he jumps and drops his helmet. He turns around and sees Danny standing there staring at him. Well, everyone's kind of staring at him. Great. "No one here is going to make fun of you for a medical condition. We know you can't control it. So relax, yeah?"

Stiles can only nod.

The front door slams shut loudly when Stiles gets home from school a couple days later. It's been a shitty few days (literally) and if he keeps having to change four times a day, he is going to go absolutely ballistic.

"What's up, kid?" his dad asks from the couch.

"Nothing," Stiles bites out and he knows he's being a brat, okay? His dad raises his eyebrows but refrains from commenting and the fight just seeps out of Stiles. He collapses heavily onto the couch next to his dad and exhales loudly.

"Maybe you could try meditation," his dad says and Stiles cannot even fathom the fact that his dad is actually being serious right now. His dad apparently notices the look on Stiles's face and adds, "it's in the binder," as if the binder is gospel. Then again, it did come from Lydia. "It's supposed to relieve the stress that may be a trigger."

"Dad, thanks, but I don't really think the stress is going to let up anytime soon. Do you know my life?"

"…Yeah, okay. Fair enough. Well, maybe try the breathing exercises you used to use for your panic attacks. It could help."

It's the first time Stiles has had to pick up his own supplies since this whole ordeal started. It shouldn't be a big deal, he knows exactly what he's getting. He just has to walk in, walk out. That simple. Or, at least, it _should_ have been that simple.

But people are fucking jackasses and Stiles's life is _never_ that simple.

He makes it to the parking lot, bag in hand, when shit hits the fan. He doesn't know what the worst part is: if it's the comment itself (_Aw, is Stilinski picking up his pull-ups?_) or the fact that the comment comes from a kid who's in his English class…who is also standing with eight or so other laughing kids Stiles knows from school.

Maybe the worst part is that they're _right_.

He drops the bag and runs.

His dad finds him an hour and a half later at the park. His dad doesn't say a word, just sits on the empty swing next to Stiles.

"How'd you find me?" Stiles asks some twenty minutes later.

"Do you not remember you and Scott running away from home when you were eleven?" Silence follows. Stiles isn't sure how long it lasts, but he'd guess at least a half hour. "It's a school night, kiddo." Stiles sniffles and tries to choke back his tears. He doesn't want to do this right now. "Hey, no, none of that you're okay," his dad says gently, kneeling on the uncomfortable woodchips in front of Stiles's swing when it becomes obvious that Stiles is losing the battle with his tears. He pulls Stiles in close, lets Stiles slump forward onto his shoulder bonelessly. Stiles can't bother to hold the sobs back from that point and his dad just holds him through it, taking his weight like it's nothing as he kneels on those god awful woodchips.

"Life is hard, kid, I'm not denying that," John says later that night as he lays crammed on Stiles's bed, Stiles pressed into his side. "_Your _life is hard." He pushes back the hair that's fallen listlessly on Stiles's forehead. "But it gets better, Stiles, I promise you that." Stiles sniffles, pushing his face into his dad's t-shirt. It isn't a preclude to crying this time, Stiles is pretty sure he's done more than enough of that for the night. "I know you hate being stripped of control, I get it. But nobody's going to let you just give up and when it's too much, you tell me, okay? You aren't alone in this. You're never alone in this."

"I know," Stiles whispers.

Because life may not be a sure thing, his life _definitely_ isn't a sure thing, but if there's one thing Stiles is sure of it's that he isn't alone.


End file.
